


the streets are full of strangers

by smilebackwards



Series: the streets are full of strangers [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, M/M, POV Alternating, The Hilltop (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-28 05:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilebackwards/pseuds/smilebackwards
Summary: When Deanna asks Daryl to leave Alexandria, he meets Paul on the road a little earlier.





	1. Daryl

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Les Mis song 'On My Own'. 
> 
> I don't think I've ever even posted a WIP before but this is mostly written so I'm planning to update weekly. Expecting 5 chapters.

Alexandria asked more than three questions. A lot more.

In hindsight, he should have lied. Should have tried to camouflage like Carol, at least a little. It hadn’t really occurred to Daryl that this many years into the shitstorm there were still people that could afford to be so picky about who they lived with.

He wondered if things would have been different if he’d been wearing a clean shirt, if he’d handed his crossbow off to Carl for safekeeping or put it down on the couch during the interview. If he hadn’t gutted that possum on the front step. If he hadn’t almost choked out that smarmy supply runner.

Daryl could have done a lot of things different. 

He didn’t really think it would have changed anything. Alexandria was a gated community as much in the old meaning as the new. It wasn’t the kind of place Daryl ever could have fit. Daryl wasn’t surprised when Rick, Michonne and Sasha got their job assignments and he got his marching orders.

Deanna did it at night, quietly, while the others were asleep. Smart. 

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” she said, sounding genuine. “You’re a hard read, Mr. Dixon, and this community needs better than even odds.”

Daryl nodded, accepting. 

Carl and Judith deserved this place. Rick, Carol, Glenn, Maggie, they all deserved it. A place with walls. A basketball hoop and a lending library. Rose gardens. Daryl wasn’t going to jeopardize that. He could hear Rick clear as day. _It’s all of us or none of us._

It won’t be a choice they have to make.

“You got some paper?” Daryl asked. “Pen?”

Deanna pulled a notepad and a pencil stub out of her pocket. Daryl flipped past a list of crop calculations to a new page. No sappy letter, just an explanation: This is a good place. I’m glad. Don’t waste no fuel looking for me.

 _Love ya,_ he thought but didn’t write it, just scrawled his name across the bottom. 

Daryl ripped out the page. He folded the paper in half before he handed it back to Deanna and wondered if that would stop her from reading it.

She tucked the note into the pocket of her shirt and passed a sturdy duffel bag into Daryl’s hands. Black waterproof canvas. 

Daryl shouldered the pack. It was heavy. Probably enough food for a week at least if he supplemented it with a few squirrels. _Generous,_ Daryl thought and wasn’t sure if he meant it bitter or true. 

“Make sure you put somebody up in that tower,” Daryl said, stepping outside the walls. 

For a moment, Daryl thought Deanna might change her mind, call him back. He didn’t stop. Daryl had been enough places where he wasn’t wanted. He closed the gate behind him and walked away. 

One foot in front of the other. 

Breathe.

  
  


Being alone was boring. No teasing between Carl and Michonne. No tactical directions from Rick. No bullshit anecdotes from Abraham. Just an endless stretch of road dotted with abandoned cars and debris. 

Daryl walked all night, mostly for something to do, and then spent a few hours sleeping up in a tree, strapped to a branch with his belt. Being alone meant no one on watch too.

He climbed down a little before noon, the sun high in the sky, and kept going, west so he didn’t retrace the route they’d already picked clean. A few miles later, Daryl stopped in front of a boarded up building. There was no sign. It might have been abandoned and derelict even Before.

Daryl had inventoried the rations Deanna gave him: six bottles of water, four dented cans of chicken and stars soup, one mason jar of jam and one of pickles, a sleeve of Saltine crackers, some bags of dried shit Daryl didn’t recognize, a roll of duct tape, and half a pack of cigarettes with no lighter. He didn’t need any more provisions for the moment but it never hurt to have extra. 

Daryl picked up a length of rebar from a pile of junk in the parking lot that had fetched up against the curb and used it to pry the boards off the door. Swinging it open, he tapped the rebar against the frame and waited. No walkers. 

Daryl eased his way inside. With the windows still boarded up, it was dim and cool. Daryl could see two desks and a file cabinet. Some kind of office. He rifled through the desk drawers, pocketing a chocolate bar and a few wrapped peppermints.

One corner of the office had a sink and a toaster. Promising. Daryl opened the cupboards. There were a few dishes, half a loaf of bread that had been overcome by mold, and a box of Cheerios, still sealed. The back of the box had a picture of a smiling blonde baby and the words ‘made for little hands.’ 

Daryl’s throat felt tight. He grabbed the box and walked back outside into the fresh air, kept going, mile after mile.

A few hours later the road intersected—Monroe with State—and Daryl surveyed the line of cars that had crashed or been abandoned there. The dependable old Toyota would have been a good bet, but Glenn was the go-to scavenger and Daryl knew he wouldn’t be able to resist running his hand along the smooth curves of the low-slung black Mustang.

Daryl popped the trunk and pushed aside a window reflector and a bottle of seat cleaner. He put the box of Cheerios in the cleared center space, back facing up, the candy bar and mints on top, and slammed the trunk closed. Taking the duct tape from his pack, he marked a silver X.

“X marks the spot,” Carl had grinned when they were working out the scavenging signs: a strip of duct tape covering the gas tanks for empty, two crossed strips on the trunk for supplies left behind. “Buried treasure.”

Daryl wasn’t sure he would’ve called it treasure, but it was something at least.

A scuffling noise grabbed Daryl attention. He brought his crossbow up automatically, tracking the direction. It was coming from somewhere around the corner of a grey clapboard house, quicker and more urgent than the sounds walkers usually made. More like a real live human being, probably in some kind of trouble. 

Daryl hesitated. These days when you met someone on the road it was a crapshoot whether they were going to try to kill you or you made a friend for life.

The sounds continued and Daryl made his choice, moving swiftly across the grass, crossbow at the ready.

There was a man on the ground, on his back, and three walkers. As Daryl watched, one of the walkers lunged down for the man’s neck. Daryl shot it through the head with an arrow and waited to see what the guy would do with the other two. 

The man looked at Daryl with startled blue eyes and then rocked backwards and flipped up to his feet. He did some kind of ninja spin kick that knocked the walkers to the ground and efficiently stabbed both of them in the head with a knife.

“Thanks, they got the drop on me,” the man said, leaning over, hands on his knees, as he got his breath back. He straightened up and held out a hand to Daryl. “I’m Paul Rovia. Some people call me Jesus,” he added motioning to his long hair and beard.

Daryl could see a bit of likeness to the figure hung on the cross in the church near the Greene’s farm. It didn’t make him feel kindly disposed. Jesus hadn’t been taking no requests while they’d searched for Sophia. Daryl stayed back a few feet, out of range of that spin kick.

“Do you have a camp?” Paul asked.

Daryl’s heart clenched. “No.”

Paul looked like he was waiting for the next logical question. _Do you?_

Daryl didn’t ask it. He turned and started back toward the intersection. 

“Wait!” Paul called, running after him. “What’s your name?” he asked, peering at Daryl with bright eyes. He looked like the kind of person that would assign you a nickname if he didn’t have anything to call you.

“Daryl,” Daryl said, reluctantly.

Paul beamed. “Nice to meet you, Daryl.”

“Yeah,” Daryl grunted, kicking at the concrete of the road. He didn’t much feel like making new friends but he didn’t particularly want to be alone either.

“I’m making a run to an old store one of the people in my camp thinks might still have some supplies. Do you want to come along? Be my backup?”

“What’s in it for me?” Daryl asked.

Paul shrugged. “Supplies. An offer to join our community.” He gave Daryl a look Daryl couldn’t quite interpret. Sly maybe. “Companionship.”

 _An offer to join our community._ It couldn’t be too far away and they weren’t more than a couple days out from Alexandria. Maybe Deanna would let Daryl visit, so long as he wasn’t living there. Or he could meet up with the others outside the walls. _Yeah, we’ll have goddamn picnics,_ Daryl thought, ruthlessly trying to strangle the hope.

“All right,” Daryl said. It wouldn’t hurt to see the place. And Paul seemed like good people. Knew his way around a fight.

Paul grinned and led the way. He kept glancing at Daryl out the corners of his eyes but didn’t try to start any more conversation. “That’s it,” he said when they reached a building painted dark navy blue. Half of the sign above the doors had been destroyed. What was left said Jac— Spor—. 

_Sporting goods?_ Daryl wondered, fingering his crossbow. That could come in real useful if there was anything good left. The door was sealed up tight with one of those metal gates that pulled down from the ceiling to the ground. Daryl glanced around for a crowbar or something to use to get it open. 

_Click._

Paul put a set of lockpicks back in his pocket and rolled the gate up and away. _Nice,_ Daryl thought. _Useful skill._

Paul opened the inside door and gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Well, it looks like you’re my lucky charm.”

Daryl scoffed. “Ain’t never been called that before.” He’d always been considered the bad penny, not the lucky one. But this was somebody’s luck. The place hardly looked touched. Dust a quarter inch thick on all the surfaces but aside from that. 

“I’ll take right, you take left?” Paul offered. 

Daryl shrugged and started down the left aisle. Footballs and basketballs and soccer balls. He stopped by the baseball mitts. They probably had those already in Alexandria but he took two and a carton of baseballs just in case. Rick or Michonne could play catch with the kid.

The corner for camping was the real treasure trove. Daryl packed his duffel with dried meals, water bottles and purifiers, flashlights, batteries, waterproof matches and lighters and then did the same with two more backpacks.

There were a few racks of clothing. Flannel shirts and anorak jackets. Daryl fingered the ragged ends of his shirt where he’d cut out the sleeves. _We need to keep up appearances,_ Carol had told him in Alexandria. _Even you._

Paul, with his criss-crossed belts and leather duster, looked like a cover model for _Apocalypse Style._ Daryl’s been wearing the same pair of jeans since this shit started and they hadn’t been new then either.

For walls, maybe a bed, he could try a little less black, a little more sleeve this time. Daryl took off his vest, packed it into the duffel bag, and picked a checked flannel shirt in hunter green from the clothes rack, ignoring the reds and oranges. There was fitting in and there was making yourself a target. He looked at himself in a tarnished full-length mirror hanging crooked from the side of a pillar. He didn’t look like Rick, he just looked a little less like himself. Maybe that would be enough.

“You clean up nice,” Paul said, popping up out of nowhere and practically giving Daryl a heart attack.

It felt like bait somehow. Daryl didn’t take it. 

“Do you know how to use one of these?” Paul asked, showing Daryl the compound bow in his hands. 

Daryl nodded. 

“Great,” Paul said, slinging it over his shoulder. “There’s more if you’d be willing to teach some people.” He led Daryl back over to the section and grabbed two more. Daryl took a box of carbon arrows from a shelf.

There was a locked case of knives beneath the register. Daryl smashed it open with the butt of his crossbow and took everything. He put most of them in the blue backpack with the baseball mitts.

“Can you carry all that?” Paul asked, looking at Daryl as he tried to balance the three bags. “We can lock it up and come back for more later. Maybe with a car.”

“Ain’t taking this one all the way,” Daryl said, holding out the blue backpack.

Paul locked the place up again as best they could and they started back for the intersection at Monroe and State. 

When they got there, Daryl popped the trunk of the Mustang and put the blue backpack in beside the Cheerios and candy. _There,_ Daryl thought. _Now that was some buried treasure._ “We gonna make it back to your camp by nightfall?” he asked dubiously, looking at the sinking sun.

“Should be fine if we don’t run into any trouble,” Paul said. He pointed northwest. “It’s this way.”

They didn’t run into any trouble. This was one of the clearest areas of the country Daryl had ever seen. Hardly any walkers. 

The ground started to slope up. Daryl could see a wall coming into view, upright tree trunks with the branches hacked off set in a tight unbroken circle. Daryl dumped a capful of water from his bottle into his hands and tried to scrub some of the dirt out of his fingernails. It felt like a waste but Carol would have considered it an investment.

Paul was looking at him, concerned. “I didn’t— When I said you cleaned up nice, I didn’t mean you _had_ to,” he said. “No one's going to turn you out because of a little dirt. We’ve all looked worse at one time or another.”

Daryl didn’t say anything. He wiped at his face with a sleeve.

There were two guards at the top of the gate. “Hey, Jesus!” they called down, opening the damn thing without even asking who Daryl was. Lax security.

Inside the gate, it looked like half Renaissance Faire, half FEMA camp. There were some shaky-looking wooden buildings, chicken coops, vegetable planters, what Daryl thought might be a blacksmith shop, and about a dozen boxy, pale green trailers.

There was also a huge, three-story mansion. 

“That’s called Barrington House,” Jesus said, following Daryl’s line of sight. “HQ, extra living space, community meeting place. Basically the center of the Hilltop Colony.” 

Daryl’s heart dropped as he stared up at it. Barrington House was even more ritzy than the McMansions in Alexandria. Classic red brick and honest to God _pillars._

“It’s okay,” Paul said, encouragingly, and pushed open the front door.


	2. Paul

Paul had had a cat before everything. A thin, skittish tortoiseshell with luminous yellow eyes and a piece missing near the top of her right ear. Bastet he’d called her, after the Egyptian goddess. She used to hide whenever anyone else visited his apartment. 

“I’m not sure I even believe you have a cat,” Paul’s last boyfriend had said.

Something about Daryl reminded Paul of Bastet. Most new people looked at Hilltop and Barrington House like they were salvation. Daryl looked like he’d walked into a trap and he regretted it.

“It’s okay,” Paul tried to reassure him as Daryl stared at the cut crystal bowl on the spindly decorative table in the foyer and the mud his boots were leaving on the Persian rug. Paul hoped Gregory wouldn’t immediately start talking about how hard it was to keep things clean.

Daryl’s eyes traced the curve of the staircase. He reached out to touch one of the gilded mirrors and then pulled his hand back quickly before he could leave a smudge. Something in Paul hurt watching him.

Paul would rather have left Daryl meeting Gregory for later but he couldn’t bring someone in without approval. Paul knocked on the study door. 

“Come in!” Gregory called from inside.

Paul reached up to fix the collar of Daryl’s shirt. It was a shame the sleeves covered Daryl’s biceps but the new shirt was a good play when it came to Gregory.

Daryl propped his crossbow outside the door like he was cutting off an arm. That was a good choice too, Paul thought. He took a deep breath and pushed open the study door.

Gregory stood up from behind his large mahogany desk. “Jesus,” he said with the pompous expansiveness he probably thought passed for warmth. “Did you find anything on your trip?”

Paul put the three compound bows down on Gregory desk, careful not to knock off the papers and ornaments. “These,” he said. “And a lot more camping gear we can go back for. But most importantly, this is Daryl.” 

Gregory gave Daryl a frozen smile. “Daryl…,” he prompted.

“Dixon,” Daryl said shortly, chewing on his thumbnail. He unslung the second backpack he’d filled with camping supplies off his shoulder and leant it up against the desk.

“Well, Mr. Dixon, welcome to the Hilltop Colony. Where are you from?”

Daryl looked like he was sorting through a few options before he said, “Georgia.” Concise.

“Georgia,” Gregory said. His interest seemed a little piqued by that. “That’s a long ways. How were things down there?”

“Bad,” Daryl said, apparently determined to give only one word answers. He was starting to look irritated. More irritated. His eyes narrowed to slits. “How many questions you got?” 

“Just a few more,” Paul promised, hoping Gregory would get on with it. This was an interview as much on Hilltop’s side as Daryl’s. Daryl could clearly fend for himself if he wanted to leave and strike back out on his own.

“All right. Well I got three for you first,” Daryl said. “How many walkers you killed?”

Gregory glanced at Paul. “How many of the dead,” Paul clarified. Everyone he’d come across had a different name for them. Walkers, roamers, biters, dead.

“None,” Gregory said, looking disgusted by the prospect. He’d been behind walls since the whole situation started. Paul wasn’t sure how many of the things he’d even _seen._

Daryl took that in. He didn’t look impressed. “How many people you killed?”

“None,” Gregory said slowly. He gave Paul another look. It didn’t improve matters when Daryl’s last question was, “Why?”

“We’re all civilized people here, Mr. Dixon,” Gregory said, condescending. “We don’t kill the living.”

It was just one more example of how out of touch Gregory was with the people here, Paul thought. He knew for sure that Tim had killed men who’d tried to stop him on the road, that Marsha would be quick to put her mother’s death on her shoulders. Paul had never gotten the full story from her but it couldn’t have been anything but mercy.

“How about you?” Daryl said, turning to Paul.

“A lot of the dead,” Paul said. “Two people.”

“Why?” Daryl asked when Paul didn’t elaborate.

“Because I had to,” Paul said.

Daryl gave him an opaque look but didn’t ask further. 

“And why should we allow you into Hilltop, Mr. Dixon?” Gregory asked. 

Daryl looked like he was going to give Gregory a good reason to kick him out or just make a run for it himself.

“Daryl’s a good shot,” Paul cut in quickly. “He saved me from one of the dead on the road. He knows how to shoot the bows.”

“I can hunt,” Daryl added. “Track. Trap. Learned a little farming.”

Even Gregory knew by now that those were some of the most marketable skills that could be had nowadays. “All right,” Gregory said. “Jesus, find him a place—”

“He can stay with me,” Paul said, too quickly. Daryl and Gregory both stared at him. Paul had brought in plenty of people; he’d never offered to share living space with any of them. Maybe he had something of a vested interest this time. “Come with me,” he said, plucking at Daryl’s sleeve to guide him back outside.

 

 

Things may have started a little rough with Gregory but Daryl fit the community like a glove. He was an odd combination of withdrawn and gregarious. It took him three weeks to meet all the Hilltop residents, but everyone who spoke to him liked him almost immediately and anyone that didn’t had warmed to him after he brought back a deer from outside the walls, cleaned and dressed and ready for the spit.

“To Daryl!” Andy had called out a toast, a little tipsy on the beer-ish drink they’d been experimenting with, while they’d all been gorging on the venison.

“Daryl!” everyone cheered raggedly.

The tips of Daryl’s ears had gone a charming pink. Paul had smiled at him and nudged him in the side with an elbow. Daryl had nudged him back with his shoulder and Paul felt warm all the way down to his bones.

Daryl could also get more milk out of Bessie in an hour than anyone else managed in a day.

“Somebody taught me,” Daryl said, flatly practical, when Paul asked him his secret. “Anybody here ever even seen a cow before all this?”

“Crystal watched a documentary on dairy farming,” Paul offered.

Daryl scoffed. His shoulder was pressed comfortably up against Bessie’s side. “Don’t none of you know how to treat a girl, huh, Bess?”

A perfect opening if Paul had ever heard one. “I’ll admit I’ve focused most of my attention on how to treat guys,” he said.

Daryl didn’t visibly react. “Don’t think it’s much different,” he said. “Got to be a little firm and lot kind.” He took Paul’s hand and guided it against Bessie’s side.

Paul could feel Bessie’s large heart beating, much more calmly than his own. “I meant I’m gay,” he said, to be perfectly clear.

Daryl took his hand off of Paul’s. “Heard what you said,” he grunted. “I ain’t dumb.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

Daryl stood up and handed Paul the bucket of milk he’d just squeezed. He gave Bessie a handful of grain and untied her from the post before he left the barn.

Bessie gave a low, sad _moo._ If a cow could look reproachful, she was doing a good job of it. Paul sighed and took the milk to the cold storage room.

 

 

It wasn’t awkward after was the thing. 

Paul found Daryl in their trailer a few hours later, propped up on the sofabed with an arm behind his head, and halfway through reading _Island of the Blue Dolphins._ Daryl nodded at him peaceably. 

Paul wasn’t sure if Daryl understood that Paul had told him he was gay because he wanted to gauge Daryl’s interest or if this was Daryl’s way of turning him down. Straight out asking felt like it might get him another prickly response about Daryl’s intelligence so Paul decided to table things for the time being.

“Do you want to go on a supply run with me tomorrow?” he asked instead. Maybe they could find some of the meds that Harlan had been asking for.

Daryl turned a page. “Who else is goin’?”

“Just me,” Paul said. “Most people here don’t go outside the walls.”

Daryl put down his book. “Forty five people here and you’re the only one goes outside the walls?” he said incredulously. “That’s cold, man.”

“The others do occasionally,” Paul said. If they had to. Usually supply drops to the Saviors. They were going to need to do one soon. Paul didn’t look forward to telling Daryl about that deal when he asked where half of their food was headed.

“When we—” Daryl stopped abruptly.

“We?” Paul prompted gently. Daryl had dropped a few hints about being with another group before he’d come to Hilltop, mostly accidental. Paul hadn’t been able to figure out what happened there. Any memories Daryl had seemed kind.

Paul had found Daryl altering a shirt in the trailer one day. The sleeves were gone and he was stitching the edges around the arm holes, a little uneven but still neat. “Who taught you to do that?” Paul had asked, curious, and the name Carol had slipped out before Daryl’s mouth locked up tight. 

“Nothin’,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “I’ll get your back tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Paul said.

In the morning he went by the medical trailer to get the list of what Harlan was looking for. Mostly antibiotics and pain relief. Gauze and sterile bandages. The staples of an infirmary. “Coffee if you can find it,” Harlan said, smiling. “I’ll even accept instant. It is the end of the world after all.”

Daryl was already waiting at the gate beside one of the cars. They were going to need to look further out than usual for medicine. “You want to take the wheel?” Daryl asked. 

Paul looked at him to check if he was making a Jesus joke. He honestly couldn’t tell.

Daryl cracked a grin. “I’m drivin’,” he said. “Get in.”

They left the windows rolled down as they zoomed down the empty roads. “I’ve been a few miles down Compton and Elm,” Paul said, looking at the map. “Let’s try Park.”

It was mostly residential, the homes starting to lose out to the elements, porches caving in and gutters coming away from the roofs. Daryl shot a few stray dead from long range and they started going through the houses one by one. Even people that had evacuated couldn’t have packed up everything worth something. 

Paul found a few bottles of aspirin only two months past the expiration date and Daryl dug up a prescription bottle of Vicodin hidden at the bottom of a drawer.

Paul looked at the smiling photographs hung in the hallway. He straightened one that was askew. It was a nice change. Most walls these days either had bullet holes or suicide notes. 

“Want to try the next one?” Daryl asked. 

Paul nodded. He almost tripped over one of the dead on the way out the door. Sloppy. It hadn’t been there when they went in. It was crouched over, eating some unfortunate animal, maybe a possum or a skunk. 

“Daryl!” Paul called out in warning, jumping over the body. It turned it’s bloody face toward Paul and started to get up to its feet. Others were shambling across the yards toward the commotion. Paul counted. _Five. Six. Seven. Eight._

An arrow went through the first dead’s head. Daryl kicked the animal carcass off the porch and one of the closer dead went after it. “C’mon,” Daryl said. He shot another of the dead through the eye.

Paul kicked one in what was left of its gut to push it back and then stabbed it through the temple. Another took its place and Paul got it through the skull. When he went to pull the knife out, the blade stayed stuck. Paul looked at the useless detached handle in his grip. “Daryl!”

Daryl took in the situation in one sharp glance and tossed Paul the knife from his boot. “You good?” he asked, slamming the butt of his crossbow through the cheekbone of one of the dead.

“I’m good,” Paul said. He flipped the new knife in his hand. It was small but perfectly balanced. He’d been practicing knife throwing at some of the targets Daryl had set up for archery practice with Marsha and Travis, who he’d weeded out of a larger group as having good potential, but it was probably best not to attempt anything fancy yet. Paul used an axe kick to knock one of the dead dressed in the tattered remains of a business suit to the ground and stabbed it through the forehead. The knife went in and out like it was butter.

Daryl had gotten the rest of the dead and was retrieving his arrows.

Paul took a moment to look at Daryl’s spare knife. It was a thing of beauty. Sleek and well-cared for, with ivory worked into the handle. Paul wiped the blade on his pant leg and offered the knife back to Daryl, handle first. 

Daryl didn’t take it. He looked at it for a beat, two, then said, “Keep it.”

“Daryl, I can’t—”

Daryl closed Paul’s fingers around the grip. “Belonged to someone else I gave a damn about,” he said. “Now it’s yours.”

“Thanks,” Paul said, fingers tingling and sticky with blood.


	3. Daryl

“You up for doing the other side of the street today?” Paul asked after they reached the end of the north side of the road. Daryl could tell he hadn’t found as much as he wanted.

Daryl shrugged. “Ain’t got no place else to be.” There was still plenty of daylight and they hadn’t seen any more walkers since the group they’d taken out.

It slow going, room by room, a hundred cupboards and drawers. Daryl tried not to look at all the smiling photographs of people who were probably dead now.

Daryl didn’t take things he didn’t see an immediate use for—extra weight slowed you down—but Paul’s philosophy was apparently, if he had space in his bag, just take everything and let people sort out what they liked back home.

“Freddie’s been looking for some Johnny Cash,” Paul said, dumping a rack of CDs into his backpack. There was an hour every evening at Barrington House where they played music on an ancient boom box that Paul had found on one of his earlier scavenging trips.

Daryl wondered if they did something similar back in Alexandria. Rick would probably turn on his goddamn— “Wait!” Daryl said, grabbing a CD case with a familiar name before it disappeared into Paul’s bag.

“No,” Daryl said firmly, putting the Ronnie Dee CD back in the rack. If he never had to hear Action Packed again it would be too soon. Fuckin’ Rick and his fuckin’ music. That was one thing Daryl didn’t miss.

There were a hell of a lot of things he did miss though.

Paul was looking at Daryl with raised eyebrows. “Ain’t givin’ no one the option of this ear-bleedin’ rockabilly shit,” Daryl said.

He’d given away more than he meant to one of the earlier nights. It had been Samantha’s turn to pick a song and as soon as the opening notes started, Daryl knew he wasn’t going to be able to make it through. He fled the room to _we’ll drink up our grief and pine for summer._

Samantha had knocked on the door of his and Paul’s trailer later. “I’m sorry if the song I chose upset you,” she said.

Daryl came outside and sat on the step beside her. “Wasn’t a bad memory. Just reminded me of someone,” he told her. “What’s it called? The song.”

“‘Be Good’,” Samantha said. “By Waxahatchee. My mom used to play it in the car sometimes.”

When it came Daryl’s turn to pick something the next night, he’d found the CD and skipped to track 6. He sat next to Paul, shoulder to shoulder, and listened to it the whole way through. “My friend Beth liked this song,” Daryl said, maybe the first time he’d said her name since she died. “She was a real good singer.”

Paul had put his hand on Daryl’s leg, anchoring. When it was his turn, he chose ‘Personal Jesus’. 

Daryl groaned. He wasn’t the only one. “You choose one more Jesus themed song and won’t no one blame me for murderin’ you in your sleep.”

“You’d miss me,” Paul said. He was teasing but Daryl felt it like a hit to the heart.

_You’re gonna miss me so bad when I’m gone, Daryl Dixon._ Daryl swallowed around the lump in his throat. Beth’s knife was at Paul’s ankle now.

“I would,” Daryl had said to Paul, honest. “If you was goin’ anywhere.”

He knew Paul saw something on his face. Paul was perceptive like that. Problem was, Daryl didn’t quite know what his face might have said, didn’t know quite how he felt.

It had been weeks since and Daryl thought he might know a little better now. What he didn’t know was how to say it. If it’d be welcome.

“Coffee,” Paul said, grinning, as they started ransacking another kitchen. He tossed a can of Folgers to Daryl. 

“Somebody request coffee?” Daryl asked. People had certainly asked him to find weirder things when he’d gone on runs from the prison.

“Harlan,” Paul said. “Personally, not medicinally.”

Daryl nodded. He liked the doc. He was good people. Reminded Daryl a little of Hershel and not just because he was a doctor.

Daryl opened the cupboards to see if there was anything else worthwhile. One of them had a half dozen coffee mugs. Daryl took one with a picture of a caffeine molecule on it and tucked it into his bag with the doctor’s coffee. 

Paul caught him doing it and smiled. It was the kind of smile Carol used to give Daryl that said ‘aren’t you sweet’ without the actual embarrassment of saying it out loud. Daryl ducked his head so his hair hid his face.

There wasn’t much else by way of food. Half a bag of sugar. Boxed pancake mix in a cupboard above the stove. Someone had probably already been through and taken anything else.

Daryl emptied the silverware drawer into his bag. Earl could melt it down for spears and arrow tips. The linen closet had spare sheets that could be repurposed for bandages. 

“You ready to head back?” Daryl asked. Paul seemed happier now that he’d found the coffee for the doc. Daryl had never liked to disappoint people either.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”

 

 

The sound of wailing greeted them when Daryl and Paul arrived back at Hilltop.

“Poor kid’s been at it for hours,” Earl said sadly when Daryl went to hand off the silver he’d brought back. “Even the doc hasn’t been able to calm her down.”

Daryl had been avoiding the baby and her mother since he got here. Too many memories. He wished he’d thought to look for a pacifier or stuffed animal—something—while they were out. There had been kids rooms in some of the houses they went through but Daryl and Paul had closed those doors and moved on. There was nothing happy about those kind of rooms anymore.

The crying got louder as they got closer to the medical trailer. Paul knocked on the door and Harlan opened it for them. “Welcome home,” he said, smiling tiredly. “You both all right?”

“We’re good, thanks,” Paul said. 

Daryl remembered the first thing Gregory had asked them when Daryl arrived at Hilltop, a marked difference. _Did you find anything on your trip?_

Paul started unpacking the supplies they’d scavenged: clean sheets, a sharp pair of scissors, the few bottles of medications. “And,” he said, drawing out the word as he pretended to dig into the very bottom of the bag. He put the tin of coffee down with a flourish, the mug next to it.

Harlan grinned. “You’re a blessing to this community, boys.”

“Ain’t a big deal,” Daryl said, scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed, but to tell the truth of it, he’d missed being needed. In Alexandria, that had cut almost more than not being wanted.

He ducked into the other side of the trailer as Paul started to help Harlan put things away. The crying was ear-piercing. “Kid all right?” Daryl asked, even though it was clear she wasn’t.

The mother looked up. Daryl remembered Paul telling him her name was Gina but he couldn’t remember the baby’s name. 

Gina blew her frazzled hair out of her face. “Can’t figure out what on earth’s the matter is all. She’s been fed, burped, changed, checked over by the doctor…” 

“You mind if I…?” Daryl asked, reaching out. 

“I don’t think she could possibly get more unhappy with me,” Gina said bleakly, passing the baby into Daryl’s arms. 

Daryl would have put her around eleven months if she was growing at the same rate as the Lil’ Asskicker. “What’s her name?” he asked. 

“Zoey,” Gina said. 

“Hey there,” Daryl said, tucking the baby against his chest. “Ain’t no call for all this. Got food. Got walls. Got your momma right here. No reason for cryin’.” Judith used to fall asleep real peaceful to the sound of him talking nonsense or Beth singing. 

“She likes the way the sound resonates through your chest,” Hershel had said. 

“Don’t everything got to be science, daddy,” Beth had replied, laughing. “Maybe she just likes us best.”

Zoey hiccupped and blinked up at Daryl. “There,” he said. “You’re just fine, ain’t you?” Paul had appeared in the doorway and was smiling at them.

“Jesus, where did you find this man?” Gina asked, watching Daryl soothe the baby. “Was it heaven? You can tell me.”

Daryl snorted. “He found me at the corner of Monroe and State. Weren’t no kind of magic.”

“Correction,” Paul said. “Daryl actually found me. And there was a little magic.” He winked and Daryl felt the tips of his ears burn.

“See you back at the trailer?” Paul asked, turning to go.

“Yeah,” Daryl said.

Daryl wondered if Zoey and Judith would be able to meet someday. Judith probably thought she was the only baby on the planet at this point. Sometimes Daryl had wondered too.

Daryl could tell Gina was holding back from asking if he’d had kids the way he was holding back from asking about where the kid’s dad was. “She ain’t much younger than my goddaughter,” Daryl found himself saying.

They’d had Judith’s christening on the road, after they’d met Gabriel. “Ain’t that religious-like?” Daryl had asked, mostly to give himself a second, when Rick asked him to be godfather.

Rick shrugged. “It’s about being there. You’re basically doing the job already.”

“All right,” Daryl had said.

“Your goddaughter?” Gina asked. “Where’s she?”

“She’s safe,” Daryl said. “Got her daddy and brother. Another place with walls.” He should probably talk to Paul about that. Trading and all. His family. Daryl had been working up to it. There were a lot of things he was working up to talking to Paul about. Maybe it was time to get a start on that.

Daryl waited, still as if he was hunting a deer, until Zoey fell asleep before carefully handing her back to her momma. _Thank you,_ Gina mouthed gratefully as he ducked out the door.

By the time he got back to the trailer, Paul was fast asleep on the sofabed, a book falling from his limp hand. Daryl dog-eared the page and tipped Paul sideways so his head was cushioned by a throw pillow. 

Paul didn’t wake up. He slept like the dead. The quiet dead. It was one of the reasons Daryl had allowed himself to continue staying with him after he’d realized there was open living space elsewhere. Any kind of attack and Paul would sleep right through it without someone to wake him. 

It was a flimsy reason. Daryl had stayed because he wanted to. And because Paul hadn’t asked him to leave.

Daryl pulled off his boots and dropped into bed.

_Paul didn’t have no damn problem waking up at the crack of dawn,_ Daryl thought irritably the next morning. But it was hard to stay mad with Paul humming in the tiny sunlit kitchen. It smelled like Harlan had brought over some of the coffee they’d found.

“Good morning,” Paul said, smiling as he stuck a mug under Daryl’s nose. 

Daryl hadn’t had coffee in years. He took a bitter sip and handed it back to Paul who’d probably appreciate it more. Daryl could imagine him in a coffee shop in Before times easy as anything, drinking lattes as he turned the pages of a book.

Daryl spent most of the morning helping fix the roof of one of the other trailers. Four years into the apocalypse they were all starting to show wear. FEMA had always expected to be a stopgap, temporary housing while rebuilding started. They were rebuilding, but slowly, every inch of reclaimed land pried from the snapping jaws of the dead. 

Paul was outside their trailer smoking when Daryl made his way back to scrounge something up for lunch. Daryl leaned back against the trailer beside him so their arms brushed and nodded toward Paul’s last cigarette. “Give you damn near anything for that.” He’d run out of the half pack Deanna sent him off with weeks ago. 

“Anything?” Paul asked, looking intrigued with an edge of reckless. A dangerous look on him Daryl had discovered early on. 

“Damn near,” Daryl repeated, because he wasn’t a liar and some things you didn’t give away.

Paul pressed the crumpled Marlboro box into Daryl’s hand, then he pressed a kiss to Daryl’s lips. Daryl froze, unprepared. Paul’s eyes were closed. Daryl stared at the shape of his lashes. His lips were soft and coaxing. It should have been easy for Daryl to lean into it, to raise his hand to cup Paul’s cheek. 

Daryl blinked. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve been surprised, but he was. 

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, leaning back. He looked shaken.

_Sorry?_ Daryl thought.

Paul ran his hands back through his hair nervously. “I shouldn’t have— Not like that. I’m sorry.”

_Wait,_ Daryl tried to say as Paul turned to walk away but he couldn’t get the word out. It sat like a stone in his throat.

Paul disappeared around the corner of the trailer and Daryl sank down onto the step. He took the cigarette out of the pack and lit it with shaking fingers. _What do you know,_ he thought at himself derisively as he took a drag, _your lips do work after all._


	4. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remix of my favorite episode 6x10 The Next World.

Paul hitched his backpack up on his shoulder. “I’m going out on a supply run!” he called up to Craig and Ethan on the wall.

“You just got back! Where’s Daryl?” Craig called down as they opened the gate.

“He’s not going with me this time,” Paul said. “If he comes out here, don’t let him leave. I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

Craig and Ethan shared a significant look that Paul could see all the way from the ground. “Trouble in paradise?” Ethan asked, because he could be an asshole like that.

Paul didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Be careful!” Craig called to Paul’s departing back. It wasn’t much of a talisman but Paul appreciated the sentiment. He waved over his shoulder and started jogging for the treeline.

Part of Paul knew that he was probably overreacting. All he knew for sure was that Daryl had been surprised. Maybe if Paul had given him a few minutes to process, Daryl would have kissed him back. Or maybe Daryl would have punched him in the mouth. Worse, let him down easy.

 _Damn near anything,_ Daryl had said but he hadn’t said _anything,_ not even when Paul had pressed. There had been a line there. Paul hoped he hadn’t crossed it. He should’ve asked, been clear instead of trying to be smooth.

 _Just a little time away,_ Paul thought as his feet chewed up the miles. He wasn’t running. He’d clear his head and then go home to talk things through like an emotionally mature human being. Maybe he’d bring back an apology gift. Flowers weren’t something you could just pick up at the 7-Eleven anymore but one thing Paul had learned about Daryl was that he cared more about what you gave to other people than what you gave to him anyway.

Paul paused, catching movement ahead.

There was a truck pulled into the gas station off Daniels. Two men were checking the gas pumps. Paul already knew they were empty. He took a few minutes to assess the men. They both wore gun belts and walked confidently, like people used to being out scavenging. People that might be trouble.

The truck was sitting heavy on its axles. There was something worth having in there. Maybe a lot of something.

Paul worked his way quietly through the woods behind the gas station. He pulled the fireworks out of his bag and set them on an upright oil drum, the fuses twisted together and ready for a match.

Paul tucked his revolver into the back of his jeans. It was usually better not to escalate to everyone pointing guns at each other right away. He didn’t have any bullets anyway, just the bluff. He turned the corner of the gas station at a run, clipping the men hard enough that they didn’t notice he’d lifted their keys. 

“Hi,” Paul said, holding his hands up peacefully.

Two hammers clicked back. “Hey,” said the guy on the left, tipping his head sarcastically. He had high cheekbones and jet black hair. 

“Keep ‘em up,” said the man on the right. He had slicked back curls. Of the two of them, Paul thought he seemed more ready to pull the trigger.

“Easy,” Paul said. At least he hadn’t been shot on sight. That was always a plus. “I was just running from the dead.”

“Where? How many?” Guy 1 asked suspiciously. 

“About ten,” Paul lied. “Maybe half a mile back. Probably have about 11 minutes before they get here.”

“Okay,” Guy 2 said, starting to lower his gun. “Thanks for letting us know.”

“Yeah. There’s more of them than us, right? Gotta stick together,” Paul said. “Anyway, nice to meet you. If this is the next world, I hope it’s good to you guys.” He put a hand over the keys in his pocket so they didn’t jingle as he ran back around the opposite corner of the gas station and lit the fuse for the fireworks. 

_Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop._

The two men turned and ran toward the sounds. Paul would admit he found it gratifying. He’d put a lot of work into finding fireworks that really mimicked that authentic gunshot sound.

Paul sprinted for the truck. By the time the men realized the trick, he already had it revved up and shooting out of the gas station.

“Sorry!” Paul called back as he sped away. He dumped the bags on the front seat out the window for them. There was a difference between being a thief and just being plain mean-spirited.

Paul looked down to check the fuel gauge a couple miles out, after the adrenaline started to wear off. The gas tank was over half full. He felt almost bad about stealing this perfect piece of luck from someone else.

“Were they assholes?” Daryl would probably ask if Paul told him he’d gotten the truck second-hand. His personal moral barometer.

 _Maybe,_ Paul thought. Although it could certainly be argued that he was the asshole in this scenario.

As if on cue, the front left tire of the truck blew out. Paul slammed the brakes and managed to get it under control without running off the road. He sighed and started fishing around under the seats checking for a tire jack. 

At least this would be a good time to see what all he’d stolen. Paul opened the back of the truck and stared. That was _a lot_ of food. He pushed aside a crate of toothpaste and a pasta maker and found the spare tire.

It only took about twenty minutes to change. Paul was closing the truck back up when someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms. “Hold still and maybe we won’t hurt you.”

Had they genuinely chased him on foot? That was pretty impressive. He’d gotten at least three miles. 

“Sure thing,” Paul said. He used his elbows to give Guy 2 a hard shot to each side of the gut then slammed his head backwards into the man’s face and twisted out of his grip. 

Paul threw Guy 1 against the side of the truck, trying to get back to the driver’s seat, but by then Guy 2 was back up and tackling Paul down into the grass beside the road. They were both pointing guns at him again. Lovely.

“Do you even have any ammo?” Paul asked. 

Both men turned in sync to shoot one of the dead that had come out of the trees then turned their guns back to Paul.

“Okay,” he said. “You really going to shoot me over a truck?” 

“There’s a lot of food on that truck,” Guy 2 said. “The keys. Now.”

“I think you know I’m not a bad guy,” Paul tried. 

Guy 2 stepped closer. “Yeah? What do you know about us?” 

_I know you haven’t shot me yet,_ Paul thought. But that _yet_ was the problem. 

“Give me the keys. This is the last time I’m asking.” 

Paul could see the bullet in the chamber this time. He handed over the keys. He could find Daryl another ‘sorry I’ve been a jerk’ present if he was still alive.

He probably would have. If only the knots hadn’t been so easy. Guy 2 had practically challenged him. “You should be able to get free. After we’re long gone.”

 _Try immediately,_ Paul thought smugly, sitting on top of the truck. He could still pull this off if they stopped somewhere else. And if they didn’t, maybe he’d get a look at their community. Intelligence and connections were as important as food.

The truck bumped along the road unevenly as they took a turn toward a barn. Paul tried to stop his boots from thumping against the metal but there wasn’t anything to get traction on. There also wasn’t anything to hold onto when the truck stopped abruptly. Paul flew forward over the hood and dropped into a roll to absorb some of the impact. 

“Son of a—” Guy 1 got out of the car to give chase.

“Glenn!” Guy 2 yelled from behind the wheel.

Finally, a name. Glenn had good instincts, Paul would give him that. Any trick Paul tried to pull on him—feints, doubling back—he was right there.

Guy 2 stopped the truck and got out to shoot a few of the dead who’d taken notice of the commotion and started shambling toward them.

Paul dodged around Glenn and went for the driver’s seat of the truck again. Glenn dove in after him and they wrestled for control of the steering wheel. _Wait,_ Paul thought, _were they moving?_ There was a lake in the rearview mirror. It was getting closer. 

“Get out! Get out!” Paul said, pushing Glenn out the door and jumping after him.

Guy 2 came up beside them. “Shit,” he said with a tone of weary resignation as they all watched the truck sink into the lake. A last sad bubble came up after it was gone.

“So…,” Paul said. Maybe they could talk more now that the prize in contention had been taken out of the picture. “Hold on,” he said. There was another of the dead making it’s way over. Paul pulled his knife from inside his boot and stabbed it through the head.

When he turned back, guns were pointed at him again.

“Where did you get that?” Glenn asked.

Paul dragged his gaze away from the gun barrel to look down at his belt. He’d moved his bluff gun from the back of his jeans to the front after stealing the truck. There wasn’t much that was more uncomfortable than sitting on a gun while driving. “The gun? There was a store over on Saddler but it’s been cleaned out.”

Guy 2 kicked Paul’s knees out from under him. “Where,” he said, slow and deliberate, “did you get the _knife?_ ” 

Paul thought he’d heard him angry before but this was different. His accent had slipped to full on Georgia. _It sounded a lot like Daryl’s actually,_ Paul thought and then he thought, _Oh_ as the butt of a gun swung down toward his temple, _Oh wait._

 

 

Paul woke up on a concrete floor. There was a cup of water and a cookie beside him. Better hospitality than some hotels he’d stayed in Before and, all in all, a definite step up from a field full of the dead and a gun pointed at his face. 

He sat up slowly and looked at the note beside the water. 

_You were hurt. We brought you here. You’re safe. Talk soon._ It was signed Rick Grimes.

 _Yeah, Rick,_ Paul thought wryly, _being pistol whipped does tend to hurt._ He checked his surroundings. There were two exits and only one guard. Plus a third story window. But these were Daryl’s people. Paul waited.

The two men from the truck and a few more people appeared at Paul’s makeshift cell in the morning. Paul hoped Daryl hadn’t gone out looking for him. He’d told Craig and Ethan that he might be away for the night. 

“Good morning,” Paul said.

Guy 2 gave Paul a sardonic look. “I’m Rick.” He nodded to a woman with short grey hair and a sweater set. “This is Carol.” 

_Carol,_ Paul thought. _You taught Daryl to stitch._

Rick didn’t introduce the others but there were four more people hanging back at the doorway. The kid with a sheriff’s hat had a white-knuckled grip on a baseball glove. A woman with dreadlocks and what Paul thought was a sword on her back had a hand on the kid’s shoulder. Glenn was glaring at Paul, his arm around the waist of a woman with short brown hair and a fierce expression.

“I’m Paul Rovia and I understand your question now,” Paul said. “I got the knife from Daryl. Daryl Dixon.”

From the reaction, it was obviously the answer they’d wanted. Paul wasn’t sure why everyone still looked upset.

“ _How_ did you get it from him?”

 _Oh, that made sense._ “Look, I’m flattered that you think I could take out Daryl, but that’s not what happened,” Paul said, trying to sound like a rational and trustworthy human being. He shouldn’t have taken the truck. That was definitely going to be a black mark. “He saved me from some walkers and I brought him back to our community.” Paul saw Rick notice that he’d called the dead ‘walkers’. Their term.

“He’s safe? You took him in?” Rick demanded.

“Of course we took him in,” Paul said. “He’s the whole post-apocalypse package. Deadly with a crossbow, can hunt and track, secret heart of gold. Fantastic arms,” Paul added.

What he didn’t understand was why Daryl wasn’t _here._ These people obviously cared about him and every time Daryl accidentally mentioned something about his old group, he immediately clammed back up and then went off to hide and be sad somewhere. After Daryl mentioned Beth in the past tense, Paul had started to wonder if they were all dead.

“When we met, he told me he didn’t have a camp,” Paul said, leading.

Rick’s mouth twisted sourly. “Some of the other people here decided, unilaterally, that he wasn’t a good fit for the community and sent him on his merry way. At night. Barely any provisions,” Rick said, bitter. “We’ve been looking for him ever since.”

“You’re saying he gave you that knife?” Carol said, her lips a flat line of skepticism. “Beth’s knife?”

“It was Beth’s?” Paul asked. “Daryl told me about her once. Said she was a good singer. There was this song.” He paused, trying to remember the lyrics. “And we’ll drink up our grief and pine for summer.”

The woman beside Glenn made a pained noise. “Beth was my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said quietly. “Daryl didn’t tell me the knife belonged to her. He just said it had belonged to someone he gave a damn about and now it could belong to me.”

Carol’s lips quirked up. “Practically a declaration from Daryl.” She looked at Rick. “I don’t think we should kill him.” She held out a tupperware container with more of the pinkish cookies to Paul.

“Great,” Paul said, taking a cookie. “That’s great. Thank you.”

“Now,” Rick said, real reasonable but with an undertone of threat beneath it, “why don’t you tell us where our friend is?”

“I’ll do better,” Paul smiled. “I’ll show you.”


	5. Daryl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions

Daryl had spent the previous day purposefully avoiding Paul and the night in the barn beside Bessie’s warm bulk, so he didn’t realize until he did want to find him and couldn’t that Paul had actually been gone. Daryl couldn’t have run into him if he’d tried.

“What d’you mean he _left?_ ”

“Don’t worry, man,” Kal grinned down at him, good-natured, from atop the gate. “Looks like your boyfriend’s just getting back.” He started to pull the gate open.

Daryl flushed. _Had everyone known but him?_

He’d known his own feelings. Since he’d given Paul the knife if he was honest. Probably before. And Paul had given a few indications, but he was naturally kind and tactile with people. Daryl had seen him clasp people’s hands, put a friendly arm around their shoulders. 

Daryl had seen the way people looked at Paul too. Like he really was their goddamn Lord and Savior. Or as close as anyone was going to get in what was left of the world. Paul could’ve had anyone. Daryl didn’t understand why Paul would choose him.

Worse than walkers, worse than guns, it was terrifying, Daryl’d found, getting the things you wanted.

Daryl had thought it through the whole of yesterday, hiding from someone who’d done one better and actually fled the whole damn Hilltop. Yeah, they were a perfect fucking match. If Paul wanted to kiss Daryl, smile at him, tell him dumb jokes, Daryl wasn’t going to let him say sorry for it.

As soon as the gate opened, Daryl grabbed Paul by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him forward into a kiss. 

Paul made a sound against Daryl’s mouth. It wasn’t displeased. His hands came up to catch in Daryl’s hair and he did some kind of ninja move with his body that ended up with Daryl’s back against the wall and Paul practically molded to his front. 

Daryl wasn’t about to complain about Paul taking the lead. He’d never gone in much for romance. Anything really. Daryl hadn’t minded when Merle dragged him along to dive bars where he could practice darts while Merle chatted up women at the bar, but the few times Merle had tried to get him to a strip club, Daryl had disappeared into the woods until he took pity on Merle, shouting into the trees that he hadn’t taught Daryl to erase his tracks so Daryl could hide from _him,_ goddamnit.

_This though,_ Daryl thought, his hands moving to Paul’s waist. _This I could get used to._

Someone cleared their throat, amused. “Are we interrupting something?”

Daryl twisted away from the wall and shoved Paul behind him. Stupid, he hadn’t even checked to see if anyone else had come through the gate. A whole damn herd of walkers could have been chasing Paul and Daryl wouldn’t have noticed.

Daryl got his knife halfway up before it hit him that it was Rick standing there. Carol. Glenn. Maggie. Michonne. 

“I found your friends?” Paul said.

“You found his family,” Maggie corrected.

Daryl blinked, frozen for the second time in as many days. He opened his mouth. Closed it. 

Paul bumped his shoulder gently against Daryl’s. “Rick played Ronnie Dee the whole way here,” he said, a perfect ice breaker.

Daryl huffed out a laugh. “You saying this man tortured you?”

“It’s perfectly within my purview as your big brother to torture your boyfriend,” Rick said virtuously. His voice shook a little. His eyes looked shiny.

Daryl couldn’t take it. One person started blubberin’ and it was gonna set off everyone. “Shut up, man,” Daryl said, grabbing Rick into a crushing hug. “You know I’m two years older’n you.”

Rick thumped him on the back and Daryl wiped his eyes surreptitiously on the shoulder of Rick’s shirt. 

“Did you miss me enough for a kiss?” Carol teased when Rick let go and then it was just embarrassing hugging and crying all around. 

“Y’all met Paul on the road?” Daryl asked. 

“‘Met’ is a generous way of putting it,” Glenn said tartly.

Paul stepped over from where he’d been hanging back a little, outside the reunion. “There was some...contention over who had ownership rights to a truck of food.”

“Where’s the truck?” Daryl asked. He’d caught a glimpse of the winnebago before they’d closed the gate, but no truck. “You leave it back in Alexandria?”

Rick winced. “We left it at the bottom of a lake.”

Daryl stared at him. “Couldn’ta shared it?”

Rick shrugged. He had a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. Paul had his hand clasped lightly around Daryl’s wrist. It occurred to Daryl suddenly that _he_ was something that might need to be shared now.

Paul grinned at Rick. “Well now that we’re all friends, we can talk more about sharing. Your world’s about to get a whole lot bigger.”

Daryl nodded. “We got a cow,” he said. “And Paul knows people with lots of fruit trees. And a tiger.” He’d seen the evidence of the fruit trees, although not the tiger yet.

“A tiger?” Rick said, skeptical.

“Some real assholes out there too. Gonna have to deal with that sooner than later,” Daryl said. “What?” he asked when Paul looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t think nobody told me about that Saviors deal, did you?” 

During archery lessons, Travis had tied a red bandana around the neck of one of the practice dummies Daryl set up and focused on shooting it in the heart with way too much intensity for it not to have been personal.

“Negan killed my friend Rory,” Travis had told Daryl after Daryl showed him how to adjust his grip. “I’m going to kill him right back.”

Daryl didn’t doubt it. Although, this Negan character seemed like enough of an asshole that someone might beat Travis to it.

“How’s the Lil’ Asskicker?” Daryl asked Rick as Paul started giving everyone the nickel tour, pointing out the corn and cucumbers, the rain barrels and the barn. “I found a friend for her here. Eleven months old give or take.”

“Looks like you found a lot of things here,” Rick said, sounding a little wistful. “Judith’s still growing like a weed. She misses her Uncle Daryl.” He looked Daryl full in the face. “Do you _want_ to come home?” 

Daryl wasn’t a prisoner but it wasn’t lost on him that it was most of the A team, minus Daryl himself, that Rick had brought to Hilltop. The ones who went out on the most difficult runs and cleared walker-infested space. Who performed extractions. They’d come to bring him home.

Daryl didn’t know what to say because the answer was yes and it was no and it was tied up in the fact that home wasn’t really a place anymore; home was people.

He wondered if Rick could even really offer for him to go back to Alexandria. Daryl didn’t see how his being gone could have warmed Deanna’s feelings toward him.

“You said ‘we’,” Rick pointed out. “‘ _We_ got a cow.’ Not they. You’re a part of this community.”

It was the truth. Daryl had people here now, and not even just Paul. He was supposed to give Travis and Marsha another archery lesson today, take a shift on the gate with Eduardo. He’d promised to find time to fix the leak in the roof over the forge. To babysit Zoey and show Crystal how to milk Bessie. Paul had set Daryl up to give some kind of goddamn seminar on how to field strip and cook wild game next week.

“I miss y’all,” Daryl said, quiet, because that was the truth too. 

Rick smiled at him. “I know. We miss you too. But I’m glad you found people here that appreciate you. We’ll work something out.”

 

 

Paul asked too, after everyone was bedded down for the night, Rick and everyone up at Barrington House and Daryl and Paul in their trailer. 

They were using just the one bed now, Paul curled up against Daryl like a cat. “Do you want to go home with them?”

Daryl still didn’t have a good answer. “I want to be with you,” he said. 

But he wanted to be with the rest of his family too. It was location that was the trick. Everybody needed a home base, as solid a place as possible to lay their heads. Maybe Daryl could go back to Alexandria now, but he couldn’t ask Paul to go with him. They could pretend all they liked that Gregory was the leader at Hilltop, but if Paul left, things would start to fall apart. And it wasn’t like they could fucking _commute_ every day across miles of dangerous apocalyptic hellscape.

Paul kissed Daryl, like his dumb half-answer was answer enough for now. 

Daryl kissed him back. He was getting better at that. No more stops and false starts. This was something good and he was going to hold onto it with both hands. 

Daryl brought his hands up to tangle in Paul’s hair, thumbs ghosting across his temples. Paul made a soft noise that sounded more like pain than pleasure and Daryl drew back, turning Paul’s face in his hands, checking for injury. “You get hurt out there?” 

Paul didn’t reply immediately which actually said a hell of a lot.

There was a darkening bruise at Paul’s left temple, where it would usually be hidden by the fall of his hair. Daryl wouldn’t have known what it was except that he’d seen it before. A strike across the face with the cylinder of a Colt Python.

“ _Rick_ hurt you?” Daryl asked, incensed.

“He saw I had your knife,” Paul said, forgiving. “He thought I’d hurt _you._ ”

It was true they didn’t ask a lot of questions first anymore. Sometimes three, sometimes one, sometimes zero. Good people or not, nobody lived long anymore if they weren’t careful.

Daryl brushed a soft kiss across the bruise. It felt dumb, but there wasn’t much else he could do. It was the height of summer in Virginia. Wasn’t like they had any ice.

Paul was smiling at least. His eyes had that ‘aren’t you sweet’ look again.

Daryl didn’t even try to hide from it. He knew, right then, that he wasn’t going to leave.

 

 

He told Carol first. Or, rather, she read it off his face.

“Oh, Pookie,” she said, leaning up to press a kiss to Daryl’s forehead. “I always wondered what it would look like when you fell in love. It’s a good look on you.”

Rick didn’t take it quite so well, but he took it. “We’ll work something out,” he repeated.

“You know, people used to seal alliances with marriages all the time,” Glenn said as they were packing baskets of produce and seedlings into the winnebago for transport back Alexandria.

Michonne laughed and tried to play it off as a cough. 

“Glenn!” Maggie hissed.

Glenn flushed. “I mean, not that you’re getting married, just—”

“Ain’t no Romeo and Juliet,” Daryl said. “Could’ve had an alliance anyhow.” Although it might not have been so smooth. People had come by to talk and bring gifts when they heard it was Daryl’s family visiting. Forged spears from Earl. Carrots and eggs from Crystal. 

“We’ll pay you back,” Rick had said, looking a little embarrassed. He’d put his hands in his pockets like he might suddenly come up with something to trade.

“They’re gifts,” Crystal had said, puzzled.

Gregory was less accommodating. Maggie came out of his office with a hard-edged smile. “I set up a formal meeting between Gregory and Deanna to talk trade. We’ll be coming back next month, and if all goes well, every month after.” 

“We get Daryl home for Christmas,” Carol said, hardline, non-negotiable. She looked at Paul and added, magnanimously, “You can come too.”

_We’re gonna have picnics,_ Daryl thought, a little stunned. _Holidays._ All the things that only Beth had ever had the heart to hope for. 

There was going to be a wrench in it somewhere, someday. Good things couldn’t last forever. 

“Don’t need to be worryin’ about no tomorrows,” Merle used to tell Daryl. It was probably better advice now than it had been before everything went to hell.

Daryl reached for Paul’s hand. Paul laced their fingers together easy as anything. Raising their connected hands to his lips, he brushed a kiss across Daryl’s scarred knuckles. The corners of Paul’s eyes crinkled when he smiled and Daryl wouldn’t give up this right-now moment for anything but he’d never wanted his tomorrows so badly either. 

Maybe he could have both, Daryl thought cautiously, looking at all the people he loved ranged around him, smiling, indulgent and happy and _alive._ Maybe this world was still theirs to build.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved. I'm also [smilebackwards](https://smilebackwards.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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